


Bless You

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), complete fluff, utter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In response to Goodomensblog's headcanon: "What if given the fact that Crowley generally tends to use heavenly/holy terms as curses/insults, saying “bless you” to Crowley is basically “fuck you.” And Aziraphale knows this and says it anyway."South Downs cottage move in day with a bit of teasing, some ineffable softness, and general fluff.





	Bless You

A move to the South Downs would eventually do them good, Crowley was sure of it. Getting out of the cluttered bookshop and the sterile flat, getting away from the winding roads full of absentminded tourists, completely ignoring any and all attempts by Heaven or Hell to contact them… All factors were simply minor catalysts in a move that should have occurred years prior but simply required one last push to continue.

That push happened a week ago when Aziraphale, exhausted from their post-apocalypse strains and feeling like he had nothing left to lose, had grabbed Crowley by his t-shirt and kissed him firmly into the next morning.

_“What if we moved?” Soft fingers traced along his cheek, the curve of his jaw. He wondered when he’d last felt so loved and knew, the moment he’d posed the question to himself, that he never had been. _

_The angel beside him hums, soft in the morning silence as he kisses his forehead. “I’d have to close the shop. Would we be returning to London eventually?”_

_“Not for a while, I don’t think.” The demon reached up to run his fingers through down-like curls, moving through until his touch rested at the angel’s nape and a content little sigh escaped him. The angel kissed there, too, feather-light against his pulse. _

_“Lets, then.”_

In what felt like no time at all, they had seen the cottage, paid the rent, and, as of this morning, unloaded the multitude of boxes of things Aziraphale had insisted he could not live without. Which is where Crowley is now: unloading boxes of first editions, each having gathered seemingly more dust than the last. Original Tolstoy, original Beatrix Potter, original Book of Enoch. Each one was finally, after centuries of trying to confuse customers, being put in its proper and Dewey-ordained place on a massive bookshelf that spanned an entire wall of their new living room. _Their._ He smiled down at a signed Stephen Hawking novel as if it had given him the world.

_Ours. Something both mine and his. _

An ancient, leather bound copy of Beowulf sports such faded, thick pages that Crowley knows it’s original and utterly priceless. Opening it up raises such dust that Crowley also _knows_ he’d have stopped breathing if he were human. It goes into the “clean and shelve” pile.

“Christ, Aziraphale, why is there do much dust?” he asks, taking a moment to sip his coffee in the hopes of finishing it before it, too, gets covered in dust.

“There are some that I’d put on top shelves and then wasn’t able to reach again. You know how I am, dear,” Aziraphale says from his spot on the couch, flipping through and organizing his larger reference books. He sets aside a heavy one with a bit too much force, and another cloud of dust reminds them of how many centuries that bookshop has remained open, how many centuries they’ve lived only a block away from each other and somehow a world apart. He smiles for what feels like the millionth time since the apocalypse when Aziraphale looks up at him from over his reading glasses.

“Angel, physics doesn’t apply to us.” He turns back to his box. The Handmaid’s Tale follows Alias Grace onto the shelf and Crowley remembers the two lonely weeks he’d spent in London in 1959, doing both their jobs while Aziraphale went to Toronto to meet a “promising young writer”. He had an eye for talent, somehow. An eye for beauty that left Crowley sometimes wondering how the angel ended up keeping him as long as he did. He was as close to being a hedonist as an angel could be, collecting only the most beautiful, the most lively, the most flavourful; Crowley would eventually have to accept that somehow he fit into that framework. Somehow he’d been chosen by an angel who was enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

“I forget, at times. Besides, Heaven has so often been on my case for frivolous miracles. Has been since…oh, I can’t even remember. Far too long.”

“I’m not letting this one go, angel.” Aziraphale sets down another large book and this time the plume of dust goes unnoticed at first as Crowley continues half listening, half participating, and half daydreaming while sorting through boxes. He turns to Aziraphale and is about to make some teasing comment about his newfound love of young adult LGBT literature, when the dust seems to catch deep in his throat and, for the first time in what has probably actually been a century, Crowley _sneezes. _

_Loudly._

_Five times in a row._

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t laugh. No, he does one worse. He primly sets his book down, waits until the barrage of sneezes ends, and then makes direct eye contact. The mirth in his eyes and the tiny smirk on his lips should have been sufficient warning to Crowley over what was to come.

“Bless you.”

_Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,_ he thinks, eyes narrowed in response to Aziraphale’s faux-innocent smile. _And then some. _

“Completely unwarranted,” Crowley insists as he sets aside a stack of lesbian murder mysteries so he can face him fully. “Utterly undeserved.” He walks towards him, toys with his tartan collar. “Absolutely unfair.” He leans in and his nose nearly brushes Aziraphale’s. He can feel more than hear the hitch of the angel’s breath in the space between their lips. “Undeniably unjust.”

“You love it,” Aziraphale teases right back. He leans in a little closer, a dare.

Crowley closes the space between them with the softest muttering of_ bastard_.

**Author's Note:**

> Find the post here on Tumblr: https://tiredandineffable.tumblr.com/post/187593938586/just-curious-but-what-do-you-think-are
> 
> Just so y'all know, this fic is /still/ named "bless u bitch" on my laptop. It will eternally be named "bless u bitch".


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